i.
S ummer songs are meant to be sung, to stretch the
u vula and to expand the lung, to
m ake new music and to write the lyrics to be sung, and to
m anipulate the orchestra through a language wing-ding;
e ventually, the opus is written -
r eal writing comes when smitten with words.
n o. We are a better community because of us, the teachers who write, who
s ing together in verse (even
t hough four weeks is little time to rehearse what’s been
i nvitationally instituted across the nation).
t his is why it’s time for the standing ovation... the 16-stanza
u ndulation of what the past 20 days
t ogether brought:
e xistentially, the rhythm swings because of these relationships. It’s
0 (none/null/zip) will be harmed by the work we do. Each and every
1 of us, quite hip, deserve applause (what a trip) in the membership of
3 300 new teachers joining the NWP family this summer. Bummer it has to end.
K ryptonite. That’s what
e very super woman needs when playing the
l ove-field of derelicts - especially arch enemies of
l oser boys....mama’s boys...thieving boys....and
i -scratch-my-butt in public
a nd that’s-not-a cat’s-tail boy. There’s wisdom in the sea of
n erdy-dorky twits and stupid-ass shits who can be found on
e bay (yes, of course the one that was gay). Yup,
t he women of the world need superpowers, for real!
iii.
E ventually we move on. We
m eander past the ways of our
i magination because the youth grab us,
l avish us, in the adolescent
y odle-lay-hee-hoo of growing up. We, the teachers, find
o ver what we’ve yet to become. We find
s erenity in the harmony of a
s ilenced cacophony, and deep down we know that the
o verature is right now...that is whey we must embrace
n eophytes in an age of karma, with no harm, yea, in the carpe’ diem.
R abbit girl: hop, hop, hop.
h elicoptor man: chop, chop, chop.
o rangutan: Hwa Hwa Hwa.
n oodle kid: Soup, soup, soup!
d olly Parton: Boob, boob, boob.
a ardvark face: i look like a shrew.
u nderwear: Sometimes I smell like poo.
l ady on train: Choo, choo, choo.
l ady in car: Where you taking me to?
i maginary friend: i am at your side.
v ampire: i drink blood with pride.
a uthor of a poem: Another verse is done.
n udist at beach: Writing naked is fun.
C ause hot pink purses matter
a s does Alice’s mad hatter,
i ntellectual and pedagocial chatter and
t eachers teaching teachers climbing this summer
ladder (despite the hot (and cold) weather) where we
i ndividually sweat or shiver (the thermostat another matter).
n estled in our notebooks, the ideas grow fatter
o urselves to be better,
o beying the reading and writing fodder, celebrating the
d elicious new england chat chowder
s omewhere near the Long Island Sound. Yep, we are profound.
T rickling yellow
o n porcelain urinal
m y bladder empties.
a kitten is killed in Spain...
r idiculous piss...
d ang. this second Tri-ku’s a letter too long.
J ust when i figured
e verything out, an about-turn
n icks me in the ass, alas, and
n udges away at my stupidity.
i ntegrity? ha! hypocrisy....
f ool upon a Shakespearean stage who
e volves from mysterious curiosity, &
r agies at the historical lummox that he is..
e gotistical insecurity hypothetically
n eeds adjustment quite drastically:
t omorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow
w hack! reality check! such sorrow.
o ut! out! brief candle. a
r ipley crandall scandal of
t hinking a little too much.
h a! the poet nitwit...his words his only clutch.
J okes on us, so we might as well laugh...
e verything worth learning is asked in 3rd grade, anyway.
s o, what did one ocean
s ay to the other ocean? nothing. they just waved.
i know. i know. real funny. how do you
c atch a unique rabbit?
answer: unique up on it.
a nd what kind of coffee was served on the Titanic?
n ope! not Folgers! Sanka.
o r what do you do with an elephant with three balls?
f orget perversion on this one. think like a
f ourth grader now. Walk him and pitch to the rhino batting next.
E lizard Castro, Buena gente, laughed with us
d ancing at the Klein. Bridgeport is so Puerto Rican,
n ationalidad, it’s Bridgepuerto-Rican. Proud to be Spanish-
a merican and ironing the historical flag…and
a fin de drunken Christmas music that disturbs 2 a.m. quiet:
r um, tequila, beer, ron, tekila, cerveza,
c reates a singer out of all of us
i n the parrandas of Nochabuena.
a guinaldos. We are traditions. We are the songs we must sing.
E verything evolves at exactly the right time, she
l aughed, hold on and enjoy the journey.
i am a lucky man. A
z illion and one mentors come our way, but the
a mazing ones...only a few. She lifted her wing, and whispered,
b ryan, the eventual
e piphany is that there’s no learning without
t he relationship. There’s
h eaven on Earth....but first you must push hell to the side.
o rganize a purpose with your soul. Shut the classroom door and ignore
t he idiots who are
e verywhere. Trust your instincts. The idiots don’t matter.
A nd another day unfolds
l anding us in this moment where we must
l earn how to celebrate and lament
a ll that makes up our everything, our
n othing, and our anything. The thing is,
a s we write, we fight, we seek inner might, and learn to
h arvest intrinsic insight so the
r eflections like this make our lives alright, while
e volving and solving riddles and dissolving another
c allow Gordian knot with a chance to redeem
o urselves. Why? Cuz magic is held within...We simply must unwrap it.
B azooka-zooka, bubblegum, hooplah
r azzles, Rasha, Hubba Bubba, Zapp gum
i ce breakers, Extra, Doubble Bubble, Zoft Gum.
t rident, Turbo, Bubblicious, Fruit Stripe,
t idal wave, Winterfresh, Bubble Yum, chew hype,
a peppermint Mento, a strawberry Orbit,
n icorette, Cinnaburst, Big Red, Eat It.
y um bubble, Jaw Twist, gnaw-nugget, wax fist.
i cky goo, sticky glop, resin wax substance,
l ick your lip, chop a wad, Dentyne, teeth dance, oompa
l oompa, Wonka’s Violet blew it. Pop! She’s now a blueberry.
B y ancestry, I was born to rule, wrote Nelson Mandela.
e ducation is the most powerful weapon you can use to change the world. He penned,
a fter climbing a great hill, one only finds that there are many more hills to climb.
u biquitously we find ourselves on the mountain with Sisyphus. letlaila le
t lailela morena (do not be afraid to make mistakes so they can be corrected)
y ou must embrace the darkness before the light can be appreciated. 46664.
a re together). Mokodue ho tsoswa o itekang (and it’s easier to help those in our
kingdom who are willing to help themselves).
i am a better man because of his wisdom. 67 minutes of healing.
n tja e itshokelwa yo a e fang (a dog follows the hand that feeds it) and I’m
t enacious and hungry for wisdom – I want to learn – I want to know. I want to grow.
a ll of us in this together, Ubuntu, the beauty is in all of us.
L ove begins with an image; lust with a sensation
y es! yes! yes! Gallagher is cerebral masturbation
n arrating dirty thoughts inside your head....
n eutralizing spanked monkey brain before you go to bed.
i t seems) when one learns to write like this...
n irvana. heaven. spiritual (or
s exual) bliss and the
l ist goes on and on and
o n. Readicide, Spermacide.
w e ‘ve all tried to get his number for you, but failed to get Lynn the joyride of her life.
J uly sweats (so does Bryan). The
u niversal hopes for
l aughter chills any
i deological regrets that will
e ventually give in to the cicadas.
o nly sparked catalysts for our
n ew thinking - the thoughts that ought to
e ngage our intellectual rage for yet another year.
s ummer. bummer, again, it has to come to an end.
o rganically, we’ve grown. But we can always use a friend
n estled in our notebooks on the days when we wrote free.
W ell, Bry-Guy, that’s another 16 stanza of your life written away...
r andomly poetic, crazy-word play of another summer
i nstitute (your own horn), tip-toeing through the roses and top-
t apping a keyboard in the CWP-cacophony of this, that and
e verything else.
o verature, I suppose, is still being composed with the
i ‘ ve (you’ve/we’ve) met along the way (optimism? to chase away the
g ray skies in whimsical child’s play). They once said of me:
h e is such a pessimistic bastard. He’s Charlie Brown. What an Eeyore. He only sees
t he glass as half empty. Why can’t he keep his philosophy full?
h aving the last/first laugh --- the
e dmund in an edward
o ur summer comes to an end, swirled, twirled and
r andomly whirled in the
l inguistic hooplah of a
d ance with words. Yet, now it’s time for we birds to leave this nest (and rest). & fly! Bry
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